


Gestalt

by dreamfall



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Gen, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Single Enhanced Sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-12 21:31:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamfall/pseuds/dreamfall
Summary: In a world where sentinels and guides are known and useful, singlers, people with a single enhanced sense, are considered more pitiful than useless. They just have the one sense-and if they stretch it too far, the others aren't strong enough to pull them back. So most singlers just suppress, using their skill carefully and never stretching it too far...





	1. Hiding

**Author's Note:**

> This is more a series of one-shots than a unified series. Some more directly consecutive than others. I find the idea interesting and feel like I might keep coming back, but don't know when or how much of an actual storyline it will get.

“All I want right now,” Ezra stated firmly, slipping away from the grasping hands of overprotective teammates, “is a shower and fresh clothes.” The week undercover had been bad. Usually he went under as buyers, occasionally accountants or sleazy lawyers. People, at any rate, whom he could impersonate while still maintaining a certain level of personal hygiene. Zeke Porter had not been such a man. 

“Aww, c’mon, Ezra,” Buck wheedled. “We always go out for a beer after the bust! Think how disappointed Inez’ll be if you stand us up.”

“I will certainly not go out in this state,” he said shortly, twisting about just in time to avoid another grab at his arm and giving his friends a half-hearted glare.

“Well, there’s showers downstairs and you got a spare suit in your office,” JD said.

“Unless you have some other reason for not goin’ out. You hiding something, Ezra? You get hurt and … forget to mention it?” Chris asked sharply.

Nathan’s eyes sharpened, his mouth tightened, and he moved determinedly forward. 

Ezra moved just as determinedly back. “I was not injured,” he said shortly. “It has simply been a very long week and I want an early night in my own bed. Why is that so unfathomable?”

Vin sidled between him and Nathan, not obviously cutting off the medic, but effectively stopping him just the same. “Reckon it ain’t,” he offered. “But a beer first won’t hurt. Take a shower and see how ya feel, huh, Ezra? Brought up your go-bag so you’d have your own shampoo and stuff,” he wheedled.

Ezra shot him a piercing look, searching for anything deeper, but the sharpshooter looked innocently back. Not that that meant he was innocent, but he was keeping any thoughts he might be having to himself. Finally, Ezra sighed. “Oh very well,” he said. “Give me half an hour then.”

He fought back a slight smile at the cheers of his colleagues, reminded yet again how damn lucky he was to have people who actually cared about him. It still felt odd, even after nearly a year of working together. He took the bag offered him by Vin and the suit grabbed by JD and headed down to the locker room off the gym. Nobody would find it strange that he took one of the private stalls; he was known for being standoffish. A reputation he’d developed carefully and deliberately, and one only partially undermined by the growth of these unexpected and unlooked for friendships.

He locked his shower stall and closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath before starting the painful process of stripping off the cheap clothes. He hadn’t lied. He wasn’t _injured_. He reluctantly looked down at his chest, taking in the rash covering his chest and arms, worse in the places the shirt had rubbed more, and sighed. God above, but he hated polyester. Opening his bag, he blinked and his head jerked up in the direction he’d left for a moment before he breathed out a long, low sigh. He’d have to talk to Vin, he supposed. But for now, he took out the large bottle of hypoallergenic, unscented lotion with aloe in it that he knew hadn’t been there the last time he’d packed the bag, and started dabbing it onto his skin, gently massaging it in, first barely touching and then a little harder as it started to relieve the worst of the itching and pain. The Tylenol and bottle of water were new to the pack as well, but he used the latter to wash down a couple of the former before digging out his shampoo and body wash and facial scrub and various other shower necessities and ducking under the blessedly hot water of the shower.

One more application of the aloe lotion after, and he re-dressed in his silk suit and felt almost ready to go out with friends, strange though the notion still struck him.


	2. Dinner

Ezra raised a brow as he saw the heads casually turn as they entered—and then most of the gazes move away far too quickly to be casual, little patches of silence garnishing the noise of the room. “Has more drama come up in my absence?” he wondered aloud.

Chris snarled something unintelligible, glaring around the room as he headed for their usual table, the rest of them spread out behind him. “When isn’t there?” Nathan asked, just a bit bitterly.

“They’re tryin’ t’get Chris to take on a sentinel again,” Buck said cheerfully. “Talkin’ ‘bout what a waste it is, a guide of his caliber working with normals.”

“They gave me control over choosing my own team,” Chris snarled. “They can damn well live with the results.”

“Ah,” Ezra murmured. He knew, of course—they all knew. Chris’s wife, Sarah, had been one of the most powerful sentinels in the country. She’d also refused to go into law enforcement, preferring to be a teacher, and had raised no objection when her husband, her _guide_ , risked his life as a police officer without her. Most of the sentinel community was completely incapable of understanding that—though the ones who had met Chris Larabee pretty much figured that, guide or no, he’d be more likely to go all “Blessed Protector” than any sentinel in the world. They’d rarely worked together at all—only when they were called in as Search and Rescue. There were still stories about the miracles they pulled off there, even years later their work was spoken of in hushed whispers. And his absolute refusal to attempt to bond with another sentinel was a continuing irritation to the DEC, or Department of Enhanced Cognition. Ezra, for one, was relieved. The last thing their team needed was a full five-sense sentinel throwing his weight around and taking over. And they _would_ try to take over. They wouldn’t just sit back and take orders, and the various sentinel legislations assured that they didn’t have to, giving them far more freedom than others when their ‘instincts’ were engaged. Ezra’s lip curled at the thought. He trusted his instincts. But he was no slave to them and didn’t respect those who were. More, he didn’t believe sentinels were—or at least didn’t believe they would be if they weren’t permitted to be. In countries with fewer 'protections', sentinels were much better behaved. He certainly didn’t want his team run by some sentinel’s instincts. He trusted Chris. It still felt rather miraculous that he could even think those words without sarcasm, but they were true. Some random sentinel who came to take over their team? Not so much.

“No sentinel would just sit back and follow orders,” JD put in, unconsciously repeating Ezra’s thoughts.

“Not entirely true,” Josiah said thoughtfully. “It’s rare, but there are some sentinels who primarily follow their partner’s lead, and far more who are equal partners, sharing their command equally.”

“Got no interest in sharing my command,” Chris snapped. “And I got no interest in guiding. They think it’s a waste not having a sentinel on the team, they can goddamn consider what a waste it would be not to have a damn fine ATF team leader on their team, ‘cause I wouldn’t stick around for it.”

Ezra exchanged half-concerned, half-relieved looks with Vin. “Well, I don’t believe I should remain in this … prestigious position without your leadership,” he stated.

There were nods and mutters of agreement. “Reckon their sentinel would be mighty lonely up there in that big ol' office,” Vin summed up, grinning. 

Chris’s expression lightened into a rare grin. “Travis knows. The DEC just makes him push every now’n then.”

“You seem awfully proud of yourself for _destroying someone’s life_ ,” the voice was young and proud and disapproving and the whole table swiveled to look at the red-headed kid who was staring down his nose at Chris with his arms crossed over his chest and a larger, slightly older man standing just behind him looking faintly embarrassed. 

“Only lives I take responsibility for are those of my men,” Chris responded more calmly than Ezra expected.

“We’re short enough on guides without you _refusing_ to do your duty and—” the man behind him snaked an arm around his shoulders and pulled him back a little. 

“Freedom of choice for every sentinel and guide was codified in 1964, Peter. Larabee’s well within his rights—”

“I’m not talking about _rights_ , I’m talking _Right and Wrong_ ,” the kid argued.

“And what I see is Right is _freedom_ ,” his companion answered more sternly. “You need a refresher on history? Guide Enforcement laws were on the books a helluva long time after slavery was abolished, and I, for one, have no interest in returning to them.”

The kid scowled. “I’m not talking about the Enforcement laws,” he argued. “That’s obviously wrong, making anybody—”

“You’re talking exactly about that. You’re talking about how Larabee should _have_ to—and he shouldn’t. ‘Sides, he was an active guide a helluvalot longer than you have been, kid. You want to jump right back in when I die, and that’ll be your call—but you can’t make it for anyone else.”

The blood drained out of the kid’s face and he turned his full attention to his sentinel. “You’re not dying, Mark!”

The sentinel, Mark, rolled his eyes, nodded to the table with an apologetic shrug, and guided his effectively distracted Guide away. “Maybe not. But you never know.” 

“New guides,” Buck said with a snort. “Ain’t they just adorable? Why, I remember when you—” he broke off catching Chris’s hard eye and just grinned. “Well, never mind that.”

Chris glowered at him for a long moment, during which Buck’s grin just grew, and then finally snorted. “Enough about sentinels. If I’d wanted one on the team, I could’ve gotten a pair. I have what I want—a balanced team, no prima donnas.” His face broke into a rare grin and he winked at Ezra. “Well, not based on senses, anyway.”

“I object most strenuously to your implication, sir,” Ezra said primly.

Tension broken, the others laughed and they got back to the serious business of eating and reconnecting at the end of an important case.


	3. Realization

“Might I borrow you for an hour or so, Vin?” Ezra asked as they departed the saloon.

“Sure, Ez,” Vin murmured, falling in step beside him, a sharp glance going over him. “Reckon you can have as many as you want.”

They made their way back to the garage in companionable silence. “Join me at my dwelling for a time?”

“Sure,” Vin said again, entering his jeep and starting it. “I’ll follow y’over.”

Ezra nodded, slipped into his Jaguar and made the short trip home at a sedate pace Vin could match easily enough. He tapped both buttons of his garage remote to open both bay doors, closing them again once Vin had parked next to him.

Vin followed him upstairs, accepted the beer that was tossed to him, and dropped comfortably onto the couch, eyes on Ezra as he patiently waited to be told what was up.

“You know,” Ezra finally said.

Vin studied him for a long moment, but he didn’t pretend not to understand. “That you’ve got Touch? Yeah, I know that.”

“How long?”

Vin shrugged. “Not sure, really. Had hints almost at the start, but it took me a while to put it together. Last couple months I’ve been sure, I reckon.”

Ezra walked toward the kitchen, spun, and turned back, settling down with his poker face on. “Do the others know?”

“Dunno,” Vin admitted. He paused, then added, “Does it matter?”

Ezra’s jaw dropped at the inanity of the question, and he started to snap back an answer—and then froze, realizing he wasn’t sure if it did. 

“Ain’t none of us gonna use it against you. ‘Sides, you know I’ve got sight.”

Ezra nodded sharply. Vin hadn’t hidden it, particularly, and there weren’t many sharpshooters anywhere near his level who weren’t full sentinels. The few that were were singlers. They could have sight just as good as a full sentinel and just as much control—as long as they didn't go too deep. That was the danger of being a singler: no other senses to balance out the enhanced one meant if they spiked or zoned too deep sometimes there was no way to retrieve them. His frown deepened as he considered a number of facts he’d always taken as coincidence despite his general disbelief in the concept. “Did he do it deliberately?” he demanded.

“Reckon not,” Vin answered. “Not sure he’s even realized.”

“How could he _not_?” Ezra asked, tone hard. “How could he gather us and not realize?”

Vin offered that lopsided grin he sometimes got. “Fate?” he suggested.

Ezra laughed harshly. “Don’t believe in it.”

“I don’t always either,” Vin admitted. “But I know Chris, and I can guarantee to you that he did not go out a'purpose to gather a complement of five singlers and a heart.”

Ezra frowned. “A heart? I’m not familiar with the term,” he said, mentally running through his teammates. Anyone who understood enhanced senses would know Buck had smell—the way he responded to pheromones and the strength of his own were dead giveaways. And it had taken longer to work out that JD had taste and Nathan hearing, but he’d realized it months ago. Which left Josiah to fill the last position Vin had described. Heart was certainly a good description for the man, but he had no idea what it had to do with enhanced cognition.

“Tends to get left out of th’modern lit,” Vin admitted. “But on the res, everyone knew there were six senses, not five. The last is spirit or heart—it’s the part of the sentinel that sees spirit animals and gets weird dreams. All the stuff the DEC says ain’t real.”

“Well what does it mean?” Ezra demanded.

Vin shrugged. “Dunno,” he admitted. “Maybe nothing.”

“You don’t believe that,” Ezra accused.

Vin grinned again, shrugging. “Nope,” he agreed. “But then—I mostly do believe in fate.”

Ezra groaned as his friend took another long swallow of beer, grinning at him.


	4. Background Info

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit dry, but some universe notes. I don't think it's absolutely essential to read it, but it might clear up some questions...

Sentinels have been around forever, men and women with five enhanced senses that could be used in any number of ways. They tend to have strong protective instincts that lead them to law enforcement and military careers, though there have always been exceptions. Some good and some bad—for some, the ‘tribe’ they choose to protect is a gang of outlaws or an evil regime. Some have claimed that Hitler was a sentinel, though not many want to admit to the idea. Over the centuries, society has used them in different ways and accepted them at different levels. There have been time when sentinels were revered as near gods, and times they’d been practically slaves to oppressive governments. They were always outnumbered by the normal unenhanced, and everyone, enhanced or not, tends to fear what they don’t understand. That had led to long periods where sentinels were automatically impressed into service to their governments, where they could be watched and protected—and controlled. These days, though, they have about as much freedom as anyone else. They choose if and when and how they work, answering to their own scruples, their bank account, their family, and their guide.

Guides, of course, have been around just as long. They are people with a level of empathy that made them natural partners for sentinels. When a sentinel gets lost in a sense, guides are the best prepared to haul them back out, naturally finding ways to balance their other senses, laying to rest the one that was out of control. They generally aren't feared like sentinels were—their empathy is not strong enough to breach anyone's privacy or to control others' behavior—but they faced even more oppression than sentinels over the years. The common wisdom for decades, maybe centuries, was that sentinels were only at their best when they have a guide, and there weren’t enough guides for all the sentinels. Therefore, in many times, every guide, willing or no, was to work with one or more sentinel. Automatic testing was implemented at a young age, and, for years, guides had been automatically pulled from their families and entered into a training and conditioning regime that suborned their needs and lives to the sentinels they served. It was only in the last century that the guide rights movement had finally started enacting real changes, and only in ‘22, not long after World War I, that the Enforcement laws had been abolished completely. Kids were still tested, training was still provided, but now it was a class in their schools, and even non-guide-gifted kids had to take some classes in case they were in the position where they were the only one available to help out a zoned sentinel. They were strongly encouraged to pair up with a sentinel: full ride scholarships were available in exchange for commitments after graduation, various benefits and enticements offered, but they weren't forced. Guides, like sentinels, were registered, and they were encouraged to work with sentinels, but they weren’t taken from their families, weren’t forced to take special classes, weren’t brainwashed or conditioned to put the needs of others first—and weren’t required to work with sentinels if they didn’t choose to. Not anymore.

The bond between a sentinel and guide, despite the entire subgenre of romance devoted to it, is not necessarily a sexual or even romantic bond. When a sentinel and guide bond, it's a connection, a dropping of shields between them, allowing the guide's empathy to reach the sentinel more deeply, giving him a great deal of insight into how to assist the sentinel. The empathic connection _does_ force a level of intimacy, but it is as frequently or even _more_ frequently platonic than sexual. The only real necessity for a sentinel and guide to bond is trust. Enough trust to allow them to drop those shields, to permit that level of intimacy. Many who begin as trial pairs don't even realize they've bonded right away, while others are always conscious of the link. Some fall into it easily, where others have to work hard at it. A bond broken by death is extraordinarily traumatic for the surviving partner, who tends to feel the death on some level. A bond can also be broken by a broken trust, which can occasionally be healed but often leaves one or both far less capable of bonding in the future, or simply by mutual agreement to break the bond, which generally requires staying away from each other for a time and is by far the gentlest way to separate.

And then there are singlers. Singlers have a single enhanced sense, rather than the full complement like sentinels. It is generally regarded as more curse than gift. The way sentinels are prevented from zoning is to balance their senses, not to focus too heavily on just one. The primary method of coming out of a deep zone or a spike is to invoke the others. For somebody with only one enhanced sense, that was nearly impossible: the other senses simply weren’t powerful enough to balance it. Far more singlers died in zones than sentinels. On the other hand, they weren’t registered, weren’t tested for strength, since testing would require them to extend a sense that couldn’t be balanced, which was far too likely to result in an uncontrolled zone. They are simply discovered and then ignored, allowed to live out their lives, pitied by the true sentinels even more than the completely unenhanced. Some of them are able to very carefully make use of their one sense if they are cautious never to overextend, but most simply suppress it as much as possible. Guides don’t work with them since they couldn’t do much for them. Guides help sentinels to balance their senses, and singlers simply can't be balanced.

It seems like there ought to be two to four sense sentinels out there, a middle ground between singlers and sentinels—but there aren’t. There are dozens of theories as to why that is, but none are generally accepted. What is accepted is the simple truth. People can have no enhanced senses, one enhanced sense, or all of their senses enhanced. Nothing else.


	5. Extending

Ezra stared at the lock.

“You can pick it, right, Ez?” JD asked anxiously.

He hesitated.

“Holy hell,” Buck murmured. “Is that one of them chain key locks, Ez? That lip under the keyhole—”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “It is.”

“But—you can still do it, right, Ezra?” JD demanded. “You can get us in—you have to!”

Which, of course, was true. “Certainly,” he said, forcing his voice to remain lightly confident. 

“I heard they’ve never been picked,” Buck said doubtfully. “Maybe we should blow it—”

“We do not know the size of the room on the other side,” Ezra said. “Nor the layout. Only that our compatriots are in it. Given the structure of the door, would it be possible to blow it without risking those within?”

“No,” Buck admitted, as Ezra had known he would. “But that don’t mean you can—”

“And yet,” Ezra said, dropping gracefully to his knees before the door and unrolling a little pouch of tools, “I shall.”

“We’ll find another way, Ezra,” Buck said. “There’s gotta be another way.”

“I should greatly appreciate silence,” Ezra said shortly, letting his eyes drop closed and focusing on the lock. He was not granted silence, but he was well used to both not getting what he wanted and ignoring distractions, so ignore it he did, gently feeling out the lock, trying to get a sense of it. He had never actually tried to pick one of these, and had, like Buck, heard that they were unpickable. They were also so rare it hadn’t seemed worth developing a strategy. More fool him. 

He probed, focusing on the feel of the lock, and swallowed when he realized he could no longer hear his friends, though he could feel the vibrations of their speech against his skin. He was too deep. He was far too deep. He had to pull up—he’d never dared stretch his sense of touch so far—and yet— He took a long, steadying breath, feeling the beat of his heart as though it were trying to break through his ribs, and released it, forcing down the inner panic and stretching even further, trying not to flinch as he was buffeted by sound waves and air currents, trying to ignore everything but his fingertips and the delicate work they were doing. Chris, Nathan, and Vin were in that room. Bound and bleeding—possibly bleeding out if he failed at this task. The photos had made the extent of their injuries unclear. He breathed slow and controlled, his own breaths against his hands painful and distracting if he let it gain any speed at all, and immersed himself in the lock.

He mapped out the tumblers, the way the barrel itself waved up and down, trying to find some way to mimic the effect of a chain key. He released another long, slow breath, and began to gently, delicately, dance with the tumblers, finding precise balance points so he could work them one at a time instead of all at once, tilting his head to angle his breaths away from his hands as each one jolted him, timing his movements to the beat of his heart as he teased the delicate mechanism into the shape he wanted, his hands perfectly steady, perfectly controlled.

Finally, _finally_ , a _snick_ shuddered through his whole body as the lock released, and he started trying desperately to pull himself back out. And then a five ton weight dropped on his shoulder, and he collapsed over his knees with a strangled moan of agony.


	6. Gestalt

Buck shifted anxiously from foot to foot, eyes darting around the room looking for some inspiration because there was no way this was going to work. They needed to get through the damn door, and here was Ezra ignoring them like he couldn’t even hear them and working with silent attention, as though that weren’t a dead giveaway that he wasn’t sure he could even do it. “Shit,” he muttered for the thousandth time. “Shit, shit, shit.”

JD looked about ready to jump right out of his skin, hand rubbing nervously over his gun as he kept checking the passageway and then spun back to demand if Ezra had gotten it yet. 

Josiah was praying softly, the words more of a demand than a request if you actually listened.

“ _Shit_ ,” Buck said. “This isn’t working—we gotta—”

And then there was a soft click, and he froze, eyes wide, staring, as the knob turned. “Whoo- _eeee_!” he shouted. “You fucking did it, Ezra!” He clapped a hand on Ezra’s shoulder—and then froze as Ezra collapsed over his knees with a soft sound of agony. “Ez?” he demanded.

Ezra didn’t answer.

“ _Ezra_!” He grabbed his friend—and was rewarded by an honest-to-God scream. “Shit!”

“Buck?” came a call from inside. “What the hell’s happening?”

“Get them free and get Nathan out here,” Buck snapped to the others. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with—” Except, of course, that he did. “Aww, hell, forget Nathan—get _Chris_ out here!” He very, very carefully released Ezra, trying not to move too fast or rub anything.

“Chris?” JD demanded. “What—why—”

“Because,” Josiah said with calm urgency as he flung open the door and strode forward, “our friend has zoned hard enough to turn into a spike.”

The men inside were in far better shape than the photos had led them to believe, the wounds only deep enough to bleed a little, already scabbed over. Chris’s wrists were bloody from fighting the cuffs, but he hadn’t managed to slide out, and Josiah went for him first.

“What the hell’s happening?” Chris demanded. “And why the hell are you here? You musta known it was a distraction—”

“We did,” Josiah said shortly, cutting him off. “Teams Four and Nine are filling any holes left by our absence. You are needed, Chris.”

“ _I’m_ needed—what the hell’s happening—I heard Buck shout—something wrong with Ezra?”

“He picked an unpickable lock,” Josiah said shortly, tossing away the cuffs as Chris stumbled upright. “But he had to go deep to do it.”

Chris blinked then swore. “Aww hell. I ain’t a _guide_ no more,” he snarled, but he was already moving, scrabbling to his feet and half-falling towards the doorway when legs too-long still wouldn’t hold him. He caught himself on the frame and then dropped to his haunches next to Buck, looking Ezra over.

He was breathing in ragged pants and staying unnaturally still except for flinching as though he were being beaten with no obvious cause. “Shit,” Chris snapped, and Ezra shuddered and moaned a second later. “Aww, hell,” he repeated, automatically dropping his tone to a bare whisper and saying the words slow and soft. “Either breaths or soundwaves, and either way that’s way more sensitive than Sarah ever was.”

Gently, as carefully as he could, he reached out and touched Ezra’ hand, no pressure, barely brushing it. “C’mon up, Ezra,” he said softly. “You did good, but we need you to come on back now. Dial it down, Ez.”

Other than flinching at the touch Ezra didn’t respond.

“Gotta invoke his other senses,” Nathan said anxiously.

“Won’t work,” Vin murmured. “Th’others won’t be able to compete.”

“Gotta _try_ ,” Nathan argued.

Chris grabbed the tac flashlight from Buck’s belt and flipped it on, shining the LED beam against Ezra’s eyelid, closed tight with pain. No response at all. He sighed and gently, carefully, pried open the eye, holding him as he whimpered and jerked away from the pressure, then releasing it when there wasn’t even an unconscious response from the pupil. “Fuck,” he murmured.

“His heart’s pounding fit to explode,” Nathan said sharply. “We _gotta_ get him out of this.”

“I _know_ , Nathan, but the only thing he’s responding to is touch, and it’s touch he’s fucking spiking on,” Chris snarled.

“Easy, brothers,” Josiah breathed. “We’ll get him.”

“If a singler isn’t pulled from a spike within ten minutes, there is a fifty percent chance that he will never recover,” Nathan snapped. “That he’ll go into a sensory coma and die. That chance increases rapidly, and there has never been an instance of a singler coming out after an hour. We don’t have time to—”

“He’s not gonna _die_ ,” Chris snarled, pulling Ezra into his arms and ignoring the agonized whimper of pain. 

“He _is_ if we can’t—”

“If you don’t have a productive suggestion, shut the fuck up, Nate,” Chris snapped, then winced as Ezra flinched away from the breath or the sound or both. 

“Guides have no real advantage with singlers,” Nathan pressed. “Guides help sentinels balance their senses—there’s nothing to balance with only one enhanced sense. It’s by definition unbalanced.”

Chris shot him a glare that should have frozen him on the spot, but before he answered felt an almost electric jolt as Josiah touched his shoulder. “Calm down,” Josiah told them both. “Fighting isn’t going to help Ezra.”

“Chris?” Buck said softly. “What is it?”

He frowned, concentrating. “I don’t—” he shook his head. “Something—”

Ezra’s arm lashed out suddenly, and Vin reached out and grabbed it before it hit a wall, and Chris gasped.

“Chris?”

“I think—” He frowned, shaking his head, not quite able to focus, feeling like he was muffled. 

Josiah started to pull away.

“Don’t,” Chris said sharply, careful this time to turn his head so the words wouldn’t hit Ezra head on.

Josiah froze. “Chris?”

“Vin,” Chris said, his voice a little dazed. “I need you to look at something.

“At what, Chris?” Vin asked, managing that trick of his of questioning without implying doubt.

“Anything,” Chris said slowly. “Just gotta engage your sight.”

“Are you _crazy?_ ” Nathan demanded. “We’ve already got Ezra down, you want Vin to—”

“Trust the guide, Nathan,” Vin said calmly, and then he blinked twice and—focused.

“Yeah,” Chris said slowly. “Yeah—no—that’s enough. Just—stop there, if you can.” His hand brushed over Ezra’s shoulder, and Ezra moaned again but didn’t thrash. “Buck. Smelling salts.”

Buck groaned, but nodded reluctantly. “Should I be touching someone?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, eyes unfocused, voice sort of vague. “Not too deep. Just like you were pulling yourself away from something else.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buck said unenthusiastically. “Who’m I touching?”

“Anyone,” Chris said vaguely, and Vin grinned a little and held up a hand towards Buck without looking at him.

“Not sure I’m ready to be holdin’ hands with you, Vin,” Buck snarked. “You’re not really my type.”

“Buck,” Chris said warningly, but still … absently.

Buck sighed, flicked open the little jar he kept for emergencies, and raised it to his nose, gripping Vin’s wrist.

“Me too?” JD asked uncertainly.

“Yeah,” Chris said. 

JD opened his own jar, and downed his shot of lime juice, grimacing as he glanced around and then Buck’s arm snaked around his neck, pulling him close.

“Nathan,” Chris said.

Nathan stared at him. “I don’t know what hoo-doo you think you’re doin’, but you’re gonna wind up with the lot of us zoned instead of just Ezra.”

“ _Nathan_ ,” Chris snarled, eyes suddenly, finally intent and completely implacable. “Get over here and listen to something. Ezra’s heart.”

“The heightened senses are scientific not magical, and there’s no way—”

“We gotta try, Nathan,” JD interrupted. “It’s been more’n five minutes already, and you said—”

“Which is why we shouldn’t be wasting time with mumbo jumbo, cuz we need—”

“Nathan,” Chris snapped again. “Listen to his heart. It’s already easier, isn’t it? Now get over here!”

Nathan paused, head cocked slightly to one side, and then frowned. “Maybe he’s pulling up—”

“ _Now_!” Chris growled.

Sighing, he stepped forward and lay a hand on Josiah’s shoulder.

Chris flinched, eyes closed, brows furrowed. “Easy, Ez,” he murmured. “Come on, dial it down, Ezra. You can do it. You did the job, now put it away.”

A shudder ran through Ezra and he grimaced, frowned—and blinked his eyes open, staring up at them in a sort of fascinated horror. “Good lawd,” he said. “Why is everyone— _touching_?”

Buck and JD whooped, Josiah let out a shout of praise, Vin and Chris exchanged glances, and Nathan crossed his arms. “That has to have been a coincidence,” he said. “There is no _way_ —”

“ _What_ is a coincidence?” Ezra asked, struggling away from Chris and Vin and then freezing, eyes dropping with expectant dread to his shoulder and then blinking in surprise. “I had thought—” He froze and then sighed. “Ah. I see.”

“You spiked bad, Ez,” Buck said. “I’m real sorry for hurting you—didn’t realize—”

“Quite all right, Mr. Wilmington,” he interjected, and then continued brightly: “Well! I am quite curious as to how the other teams are handling Schwartz brothers. Perhaps we can—”

“But I wanna know what happened!” JD interrupted. “What did—”

“I fear I zoned on touch,” Ezra explained. “I—”

“Not that,” JD corrected. “How did we pull you back?”

Ezra blinked and frowned. “I—” His frown deepened. “You engaged my other senses, did you not?” His nose wrinkled. “There were smelling salts and that lime juice—to be honest, I’m rather surprised it worked, since—”

“Since _I’m_ the one drank the lime juice?” JD interrupted excitedly. “You tasted it, Ezra?”

Ezra opened his mouth, closed it. “I—Surely you gave it to me?”

“Nope,” Chris said.

“Gestalt,” Josiah breathed.

“What?” Buck asked.

“That’s ridiculous,” Nathan snapped. “All that mystical stuff is—”

“Pretty damned effective, apparently,” Buck crowed with a grin, the hand that had dropped Vin’s wrist clapping Nate’s shoulder. “What’s gestalt, Josiah?”

“In general, a unified whole made up of individual parts, wherein the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. In sentinel theory—the idea that singlers working together can act as a full sentinel.”

“Which is completely absurd,” Nathan interjected. “It’s not a psychic power! There’s no way that one person’s hearing could balance another person’s sight—it’s ridiculous! That hocus-pocus doesn’t deserve to be called a theory!”

“And yet Ezra tastes lime juice,” Josiah said comfortably. “I don’t know what part I could have played, however—I’m neither a guide nor do I have any heightened senses.”

“The heart,” Ezra murmured, glancing questioningly at Vin.

Vin nodded solemnly.

“The what, now?” Buck demanded.

“The sixth sense?” Josiah murmured, fascinated. 

“You see spirit animals,” Vin said easily.

Josiah hesitated.

“Not just the crows, neither. I’ve seen you watch ‘em.”

“I always know they’re not physically present,” Josiah said. “It’s not like—seeing things and believing they’re real.”

“They are real,” Vin argued. “Just not physical.”

“That’s so cool!” JD enthused. “Have you seen Chris’s? What is it?”

Josiah sighed. “Mountain lion,” he said.

“Who else’s? Kennedy and Winston on Team Five, they have ‘em, right?”

“Mostly, I see ours,” Josiah said. 

JD froze, eyes going big. “Ours? But—but we ain’t sentinels or guides.”

Josiah shrugged. “Everyone has a spirit animal, sentinels and guides are just more likely to notice them. And singlers apparently count.”

“I have one?” JD demanded.

Chris whistled, shooting Ezra an apologetic look at his minute flinch. "We can figure this out later," he said sharply, his tone suggesting that 'never' would be about the best time for it. "Right now, we got work to do. We gotta see what's going on with the Schwartz bust and make sure they don't slither out of this. You up for this?" he asked Ezra sharply.

Ezra stared at him. "Certainly," he drawled.

"Good," Chris said. "Let's move."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one so far, but it got me to the explanation of the title! I do feel like this is going to draw me back at some point... I have a few ideas.


	7. Origins: Josiah

Their father was in a silent rage when he brought Hannah home that day. He’d thrust the little girl at Josiah and ordered him to keep her from doing anything unnatural, and then he’d grabbed a whiskey bottle Josiah hoped would be full enough to last until he passed out. He’d pulled his little sister into her room at the far end of the house, closed the door tight, and told her stories until the tight, pinched look in her face finally relaxed and she started to giggle at the voices he used and offer her own suggestions of what the characters should do. And then he’d asked, as casually as he could, if she’d done anything interesting that day.

She’d smiled and told him all about the funny lady who’d played with her and the game they’d played. They’d watch people and then decide if what they were feeling inside and what they looked like outside matched. If the smiling man was sad inside or the fearful-looking one was actually trying not to laugh. It had been fun, and the lady had been so pleased with her, and they’d almost always agreed. Only then, daddy had come, and the lady hadn’t seen how angry _he_ was underneath his polite appreciation. She bit her lip and absently rubbed the wrist Josiah had already seen fingerprints on. “He just got madder when I asked why he was mad, Josy,” she whispered. 

Josiah took a breath and swallowed hard. “You can’t talk to him about it anymore, Hannah,” he said, his eyes flicking toward the little bird fluttering in the corner, one un-fledged wing drooping at an angle as it twittered unhappily. “He doesn’t—he doesn’t like guides anymore. Not since mama.” Not since she'd left. Went off with the sentinel she'd spent years saying was just a job and hadn't so much as thought of them since, so far as Josiah knew.

So she did. He hardly ever saw the little bird, and he half-forgot the result of Hannah’s test. Mostly, their father was angry enough with Josiah and the way they butted heads that he never spent much time thinking on second child. Eventually, Josiah mostly forgot that he’d deliberately sought out that anger to protect his sister, forgot he’d fostered the rage that built against his father, and when he turned eighteen, he was angry enough that he barely heard the soft cry of a bird behind him as he stormed away. He never forgave himself for that. For willfully blinding himself and ignoring her, too angry to think of anything but himself. She got wild. They say guides can be like that if they don’t bond—seeking a connection one way if they don’t get it another. And since it doesn’t work, they just try harder. Maybe their father never again did hurt her for being a guide, but he sure hurt her for trying to survive without being one. 

By the time he realized... well, it was too late. He came home to find that little sparrow pecked half to death by crows, his sister raving, and his father blind with rage. He got her away, got her safe, but he was too late. So very much too late.


	8. Origins - JD

When JD was a kid, he wanted to be a sentinel more than _anything_. Part of it was the usual—most kids wanted to be sentinels. They were as close to superheroes as you could get, and who didn’t want to be Superman? They even got sidekicks in the form of guides! So, sure, he dreamed of being a sentinel. And then, when his ma got sick, he wanted it even more. As soon as they were tested, sentinels started to get stipends, and they could get more if they committed to working for one of the big companies. His ma didn’t have great insurance, and he knew she wasn’t doing as much as her doctor wanted—she couldn’t, not if she wanted to put food on the table. So he’d been about desperate to be a sentinel. He’d actually convinced himself he was one. He was so damned excited to get tested the second time tests rolled around. Sure, the five-year-old one hadn’t turned up much, but not many kids actually came online that young. No, the tests at thirteen caught way more, and he was going to be one of them. He was sure of it. He took it easy, he’d read all about the dangers and stuff, so he didn’t try to look at anything too close or strain to hear something that might be too far away. But every now and then he knew he caught something nobody else did. Like the way he couldn’t stand soda. It tasted so weird, like syrupy-sweet plastic pulled out of an oil slick. His mouth twisted at the very idea of it, even though he tried not to taste too much. So he was super excited to be tested. He was going to be able to save his ma because he was a superhero!

He’d made them test him again when they told him he was a singler. Strained to see into the distance, or the details of the tiny sculpture he was handed. His heart was beating so loud—he _had_ to have hearing, didn’t he? But he didn’t. Turns out even normals hear their heartbeats sometimes. No. He wasn’t a sentinel. He wasn’t even a normal. He was a singler. They’d given him a lecture on suppressing his abilities, on eating bland food and not overdoing it, on making sure not to risk himself, and then they’d sent him on his way. He hadn’t told his ma. He’d been so sure he’d be able to cover her medical bills, even though she’d always just laughed and told him it wasn’t his responsibility, that they’d get by, that everything would be fine. She must have known what it meant when he stopped asking, but she’d just cooked him his favorite dinner, her _amazing_ pineapple pork chops on rice, perfectly seasoned so the flavors melted on his tongue, and he figured if he _did_ zone out like they warned, well, it would be a good way to go. He didn’t though. He never did on food he liked, though he had a couple mild spikes over the years—usually on spicy. He worked out that he almost never spiked on citrus, just hated it, so he kept an emergency shot of lime juice to pull him up if he went into a minor zone or spike and was careful never to go into a major one.


	9. Origins - Chris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another origin snippet...

“How come you’re even botherin’ to study?” Johnny demanded. “Guide don’t need no education.”

It was strange, Chris thought, how people could be so jealous of something he hated so much. He figured maybe it would’ve been okay to be a sentinel. Uncle Jasper was a sentinel, and he was pretty cool. And his guide was okay, too, he supposed, in a boring kind of way. Jasper seemed to like him. Enough to keep working with him anyway. But as far as Chris could tell, guides were expected to follow around their sentinel and share their feelings. Literally. His face twisted in distaste at the idea. “I’m gonna be a cop,” he said.

“So? Guide to a detective don’t need any more education than guide to a park ranger,” Johnny pointed out, rolling his eyes.

Chris glared at him. “I’m not going to _guide_ a cop,” he snarled. “I’m going to _be_ one.”

Parker snorted. “Right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Guides can’t be cops. They’re too soft.”

Face twisting into a feral snarl, Chris launched himself at him. He had a black eye when he went home, but Parker had a black eye and a bloody nose, and Johnny had a bloody nose and a sprained wrist. And Chris didn’t think they were gonna be calling him soft again.


	10. Origins - Nathan

Daddy lost his job at the factory ‘cause he had hearing. Never once gave him any trouble, the cacophony of the machinery never made him spike—but he lost his job anyway when they found out. He could spike, they said. It wasn’t safe. Twenty years he’d been there, and then let go ‘cause the wrong guy heard one of his friends joking with him about it, about using his hearing after hours. And the guy went and reported him. Lost his pension, too, ‘cause they said he lied about his status as a singler. Wasn’t even a question on the application twenty years ago when he got the job, but they said he shoulda told ‘em. Mama, she had smell, and she worked for a candle company, helping create their scents, making them perfect. Right up ‘till a full sentinel decided he wanted it and they cut her loose without a moment’s hesitation. Those candles didn't smell near as good now—that wasn't just him saying that. They got a lot more criticism in reviews than they used to.

They dealt with it. They got by. They found work. They brought Nathan and his sisters up right, honest and hard working. But they had to work harder every year even as they got older, the savings they’d built up early on whittled away by their lower wages and the needs of a big family. By the time he graduated high school, they were living paycheck to paycheck and some weeks groceries were almost too much to manage. Nathan’s dreams of med school were never gonna happen—there were plenty of scholarships for sentinels, but for singlers? Not so much. And he earned a few merit ones, but nowhere near enough to pay his way. So he looked at his options and he enlisted in the army. They didn’t care he had hearing like his daddy, figured he’d keep it under control or get his ass shot off, and that’d be his own problem. And maybe he wasn’t a doctor, but they were trainin’ him to be a medic. That was something.

But he still remembered how proud Daddy was when he talked about sending Nathan to med school, remembered the account that grew and grew until Daddy lost his job. Remembered how hard they’d tried even then to at least save what was there… How guilty they looked every time they had to take some out. He hated the bass-ackward, ignorant way people looked at singlers, the way they acted like they needed to be protected from themselves or how they were less worthy, less good than a sentinel even if the sentinel wasn't that good. Hated how that ignorance lost him everything. But he hated just as much that he was one. That he'd always be seen as less. Less than a sentinel and less, even, than a normal.


End file.
